


House of the Rising Sun

by LaurelSilver



Series: The 'other' universe [1]
Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Child Abuse, Coming of Age, De-Aged Characters, Other, POV First Person, Parent-Child Relationship, Torture, tense changes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4236006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the course of Matt's fourth teenagehood, Nikolai was his mentor. A strict mentor, but much better than Oliver or Francois would have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of the Rising Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Characters:  
> Matt 'Canada' Williams  
> Oliver 'England' Kirkland (Dad)  
> Francois 'France' Bonnefoi (Papa)  
> Nikolai 'Russia' Braginski  
> Alfred S. 'America' Jones (Al)  
> Scottie 'Scotland' Kirkland (Uncle Scottie)

_The other universe, 6o years ago_

I sit quietly in Oliver's front room, toying with the fraying hem of my school trousers. Oliver hums merrily as he darns the worn-out knee of my old jeans. It feels strange to know I will probably never a school uniform again, but I had also felt this way the last time I'd worn one of the uniforms Oliver had given me. This is the end of my fourth childhood: the first as a nomad in my homeland, the second as French Canadia, the third as British Canada, the fourth as Nov' Kanada. Four puberties. Now that sucks.

My uniform makes me feel like I'm overdressed, the white shirt the seeming to be the only unstained fabric in this room. The smell of bleach is making me dizzy, breathlessness making the red cravat around my neck feel tight and strangling.

Al and Scottie are nowhere to be found. François is drinking his wine straight from the bottle.

* * *

 

_50 years before; 110 years ago_

I woke up warm, warmer than I had been when I fell asleep. I blinked the sleep from my eyes, and the room settled. It was large, old, decorated in grand Slavic furniture. I was laid on the rug in front of a blazing fire, wrapped a tight cocoon of woollen blankets.

I sat upright, shoving at the blankets until they crumpled into a nest around my waist. I was no longer in the typical hockey shirt and jeans I had been in when I collapsed, but in a large button-down shirt that smelt faintly of alcohol and sunflowers. I climbed out of the blankets, tripped over the tangle of fabric and smacked the floor with my face.

Rolled over, I stared upwards a few seconds as I fingered at my nose and forehead, finding no lumps or blood. Hung above the fire was a large portrait of a Russian soldier in full military uniform hand in hand with a plain-looking little girl in a yellow dress. I recognise the 'soldier' as Nikolai, the uniform from roughly the 1920's if my memory had served me right. I didn't recognise the girl.

Satisfied I was uninjured, I pulled myself up and realised I wasn't wearing underwear. I then realised that the shirt wasn't just large but  _huge_ ; it almost reached my knees. I then realised that my legs were smooth and hairless, like a child's.

I stood up in shock, checking myself over. I had shrunk and de-aged, my body now about twelve years old.

The door behind me opened, and I don't remember if Nikolai's hulking size had been due to my new shrinkage or due to fear. He seemed to tower over me, twice my height, twice my width, all dark clothes and ragged scarf.

"Are you hungry?" he boomed. I was too afraid to respond with anything more than a fast nod. "Follow me."

I had to half-run to keep up with him, pulling the sleeves of the shirt, probably his, up my arms. His dining room was as tall as the living room had been, but much longer, occupied with a long table that could seat several dozen. He led me to the opposite end we had entered, where a large hatchway was set into the wall. He pulled out a chair and lifted me into it. I stiffened, his hands tight on my ribs. He pushed the chair closer to the table, the tips of the arms fitting underneath, and I was caged in by the wood.

Nikolai opened the hatch, carried across two empty bowls and spoons, putting one in front of me and one at the head of the table next to me. He returned to the hatch, picked up a large saucepan and brought it to the table, putting it down on a mat. Steam rose from the edge, and the handle of a ladle rested on the rim.

Nikolai picked up the ladle, "Tell me when it's enough. You can have several portions if you need it." He spooned a couple of ladlefuls of the deep red soup into my bowl, before I whispered 'thank you', and he began to spoon himself a portion.

I picked up my spoon, blowing carefully on the soup.

A growling cough. I looked up to Nikolai glaring at me, and I dropped the spoon with a clatter and a frightened squeak.

Nikolai finished serving himself, a large portion almost completely filling the bowl. I realised that the deep red liquid looked unnervingly like blood in the white dishes.

He sat down in his chair, folds his hand and bowed his head. I copied, and he spoke in calm, booming English; "The poor shall eat and be satisfied, and those who seek the Lord shall praise him; their hearts shall live forever. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages, amen."

"Amen," I repeated, watching Nikolai carefully.

"Lord, have mercy," Nikolai said, head still bowed. After a few seconds of silence, his stare flicked across at me expectantly.

"Lord have mercy?" I squeaked.

Nikolai gave a small nod, and repeated; "Lord, have mercy."

"Lord, have mercy," I parroted.

"Lord, have mercy."

"Lord, have mercy."

"O Christ God, bless the food and drink of Thy servants, for Thou art holy, always, now and ever and unto the ages of ages, amen."

"Amen."

Nikolai nodded again, finally sitting upright and picked up his spoon. I sat up and grabbed my spoon, tasting the soup. It tasted strongly of beetroot, and my nerves relaxed; the red is from the root, not any sort of blood.

I ate quickly, hungrily, the soup settling hotly in my stomach and spreading its warmth from my insides out. Nikolai chuckled.

I finished the bowl quickly, and stood on the chair to serve myself another portion. Shrinking suddenly had left me unsure how much food my body needed, and the thought of leaving Nikolai's soup uneaten frightened me.

Nikolai remained sat with me as I finished my third portion. I ate quickly, and stare down at my legs when I finished.

He folded his hands and bowed his head again, and I frowned in confusion, but copied him again.

"Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto the ages of ages, amen," he chanted.

"Amen," I said.

The second prayer was longer, again with the refrain of "Lord, have mercy." On the final amen, Nikolai was quiet a few seconds before he stood, and he pulled my chair out. I was careful as I hopped down, re-organising the shirt around me.

"You'll need some new clothes," Nikolai stated obviously, "I think some of Rainis' clothes should fit you; he was only a little man. Then I'll take you to your father's, if you'd like."

I didn't answer, but stared at my bare feet.

"Is something the matter?" Nikolai asked. He crouched, still slightly taller than me but much less daunting, "Do you not want to go to your father's?"

I shook my head. Oliver had had a mental breakdown only a few months before, triggered by stress and trauma after the Wars. He hadn't recovered, and the last I'd heard from Uncle Scottie was that he was hurting himself and others with his magic.

"How about your Papa's."

I shook my head again. François had been Oliver's carer since his breakdown. I lost contact with both of them shortly after hearing about this plan. I tried to visit both of their houses, but there had been no answer from either, no matter how much I had knocked and shouted.

"I can't let you back to Canada when you've turned into a child again."

I scratched the back of my ankle with the opposite foot. The carpet was red with gold flowers and vines. The flowers seemed to have been modelled after sunflowers.

Nikolai sighed. "I haven't looked after a nation-child before, but you've been looked after twice, so I doubt you'd be difficult to look after anyway. But you'll still need clothes. Come on; wear some of Rainis' old clothes, then we can sort you out some new clothes that will fit you properly."

He began to stride away down the dining room, and I was frozen in shock. Having dinner with the Russian was terrifying enough, being his  _underling_  was almost unthinkable.

I had to practically sprint to catch up with him.

* * *

 

Rainis' clothes were too long on me, and itchy with dust. The grey clothes were coming undone at the seams, had a few moth bite holes, and smelt a little musty, but fit better than the single shirt had, and I was glad to be properly covered.

I opened the door to the hallway, where Nikolai had waited. "They're still a little big," I said quietly.

Nikolai frowned, and crouched. "Say that again, Mat… Mav… Matvei?"

I pulled a face at the new nickname, but I repeated myself anyway; "They're big."

"They are a bit," Nikolai agreed idly, "You are very quiet."

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"We'll need to get you new clothes. Do you want Canadian or Russian clothes?"

I blinked in surprise. It had the first time in far too long that someone had been able to tell the difference between me and Al. And of all the people, it had been  _Nikolai_.

"I-I don't mind," I finally answered.

Nikolai stared evenly at me, frowning slightly as he thought. "Would you have a problem wearing…  _traditional_  Russian clothes?" After a few seconds of alarmed silence, he continued; "I never had an underling to dress up before the whole… globalisation and all the cultures melting together, so… Never mind, it was a strange thing to ask-"

"It's okay," I said quickly as he paused, "I don't mind. At least you asked." It was more than François and Oliver had ever done.

Nikolai blinked, then managed a smile. Strangely, a genuine smile suited the creepy face well.

* * *

 

I tended to wear school uniforms, traditional Russian clothes making me look out-of-place among modernised clothes. On non-school days, I ended up with a lot of knitted sweaters, and red-and-white striped shirts Nikolai called telynashka, as well as several tunics Nikolai called kosovorotka. I had a red cotton coat similar to the telogreika Nikolai had worn in the Second World War, as well as an ushanka hat and some felt boots. My glasses had become too big for me, but my short-sightedness seemed to have vanished with my de-aging, so the glasses stayed in a drawer in the room Nikolai had given me.

Nikolai's first lesson for me was to learn to speak loudly.

"Are you familiar with any prose?" he asked me. We were in his office, a grand room with plush rugs on the floor and wooden panels on the walls and military memorabilia everywhere. He sat in the chair behind the huge oak desk, I stood at the opposite side. It was the first time I had faced him like this, and I was terrified.

"I read a lot of Shakespeare," I answered, "Chaucer, Tomas More, Skelton, Marlowe, Walter Raleigh, Bacon, Keats – wait, was he prose?"

"It doesn't matter. Go and stand facing that wall," he gestured to a wood panel by the door at the opposite side of the room to him.

I walked over quickly, stood soldier straight with my nose inches from the wood, hands clasped together behind my back.

"Recite something," Nikolai ordered.

I took a deep breath. "In Flanders Field the poppies grow, through the trenches row on row-"

"Didn't you hear me?" Nikolai snapped, and I jumped in shock, "I said; recite something."

"I was," I called over my shoulder.

"Face the wall!" Nikolai barked, "I didn't hear you. Start again, and be louder."

"In Flanders Field, the poppies grow-"

"I still can't hear you."

"Through the trenches-"

"Speak louder."

"Row on-"

" _Radi yebat' Matvei!_ "

Another deep breath, and I tried again, voice barely below a shout. "In Flanders Field the poppies grow, through the trenches row on row,"

Nikolai didn't interrupt again. I stood for almost two hours reciting poetry, plays and prose from memory, until Nikolai decided it was time for lunch.

"O Christ God, bless the food and drink of Thy servants, for Thou art holy, then, now and ever and unto ages of ages, amen."

"Amen," I parroted. Nikolai looked across at me, eyebrow raised, before straightening.

A tall glass of orange juice stood by my lunch, a handful of ice cubes floating just below the yellow surface. I grabbed it first, the smooth surface cold and damp with condensation, and took a deep drink.

I choked, almost spitting the liquid out, and Nikolai shook with laughter. The strong taste of alcohol clung to my mouth as I swallowed the liquid, and I coughed.

"Was there  _vodka_  in that?!" I gasped out, slamming the glass down onto the table.

Nikolai gave a small nod, holding back laughs behind a gloved hand clenched over his jaw.

"You  _ass_!" I scolded, "I am twelve years old; you can't give me alcohol."

"You're in Russia. You can't  _buy_  alcohol, but you can drink it from any age."

I gaped at him. "You mean you could give a  _baby_  alcohol?!"

"Legally, yes.  _I_  wouldn't. But that was funny."

"You have an awful sense of humour. You should be ashamed of yourself." I shoved the offending drink towards the centre of the table, gathered up a forkful of the salad and shoved it in my mouth.

The room was awfully silent for several seconds, and what I'd done punched me in the gut; I just told Nikolai Braginski off. And called him an ass. Oh, fuck.

Nikolai smacked his fist into the surface of the table, leaning forwards. He thumped his fist a few more times, shoulders shaking. Then he threw his head back, openly guffawing.

I sat in shock, potato and egg still half-chewed in my mouth as I stared dumbly at him.

Nikolai composed himself, cheeks lightly flushed with laughter. "You're cute, Matvei."

I didn't answer, just stared at him, finally swallowing the salad.

"You're not even twelve. You're over two hundred years old. Don't glare at me like I've committed a terrible crime. Drink your orange juice."

"I don't want the orange juice," I answered quietly.

Nikolai twitched in laughter. "Why do you not want your orange juice, Matvei?"

"Because it's got vodka in it!"

Nikolai collapsed into giggles again, and I glared passive-aggressively at him as I ate my salad.

* * *

 

I spent most of the next year like that; chanting morning and afternoon, sitting at Nikolai's left hand for meals, and Nikolai slipping vodka into my drinks at least once a week. After six months, he began to halt my recitals to send me on errands: refilling his tea, fetching books and paperwork, collecting firewood from the outhouse, even cooking every now and then. After seven months, my throat no longer ached constantly, and I spoke close to the volume I recited at. After ten months, I had stopped flinching every time I accidentally said something that anyone else would have screamed at me for, every time I made a minimal mistake, every time Nikolai patted me on the head.

A year after Nikolai had taken me in, I stood at his desk again, waiting to be ordered back to my panel.

But instead, Nikolai evenly stared at me, and asked; "How did you know so much poetry?"

"Dad liked to encourage us to read. So I read. A lot."

"But you weren't reading it. Stood over there, you were reciting it. I was expecting one or two Canadian poems then revert to song lyrics, then repeat the same pattern. I don't think you repeated any of them."

"I did. I recited a lot of Purdy, I liked his work. A little bit of McIntire as well, even if he was a little bit cheesy."

"But you know a lot of poetry from memory?"

"Yeah. I blame Dad."

"How?"

"Well, I haven't blamed him to his  _face-_ "

"No, not blaming your father," Nikolai said dully, "How did you memorise that much poetry? Was it to impress your father?"

"No. But my uncle was impressed- he could do something similar with short stories, just much better."

"Your uncle…?"

"Scottie. He told stories a lot."

"And he just… read them a few times and knew them?"

"No. He could read or hear something once, and he had it. But only really with stories, especially naval stories. He hated trying to learn boring stuff like instructions."

"What about plans? Plans of attack?"

"He  _really_  hated learning those."

"What about you?"

I stared dumbly at him for several seconds. "I wouldn't know. I've never tried."

* * *

 

_Three years later; 106 years ago_

I stood in the gateway to Oliver's mansion. I had grown to the body of a fourteen year old, much faster than any of my previous childhoods. A suitcase with my some of my telynashka, uniform trousers and knitted sweaters hung from my hand.

Oliver's front garden used to be beautiful. It was huge, with long green lawns and gravel paths framed with rose bushes, red down one side and white down the other. But now, almost a hundred years after the Wars, the ground was just a dry brown wasteland, brittle thorns and dead branches the only remains of the bushes and trees Oliver used to love caring for. Closer to the house, more of these plant skeletons lay destroyed, smashed to pieces under foot.

I knocked on the door. My Papa, François opened it, eyes widening at me. " _Mathieu_?"

"Hi," I greeted awkwardly, "I know I haven't seen you in a while, but Nikolai, I've been living with Nikolai the past few years, and he said I outta come visit you and Dad at some point."

"Go away," François whispered firmly.

I frowned. "What?"

"You are not safe here. You're not really wanted here. Go back to Nikolai."

"But I just got here!"

"Who's that?" a voice called.

" _Please_  go," François said, "Leave, do not return until its safe, please just  _go_."

"Who are you talking to, love?" François was pulled out of the way, Oliver appearing in the door instead. The white shirt I was used to seeing him in was pink. "You're not Alex. He's in his room."

"Alfred," François corrected.

"No, I'm not Alfred," I said.

"You're the other one," Oliver peered at me, "Max?"

"Not quite."

"Michael?"

"No."

"Matthaus?"

"Almost. Matthew."

"Matthew! Of course! Forgive me poppet; my head's all over the place these days."

He grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me into the house. Since I'd last visited, Oliver seemed to have developed a love for reds, oranges and pinks. François followed us quietly.

Oliver sat me down at the kitchen table. Dirty bowls and plates of cupcakes littered the kitchen, but instead of smelling like the delicious baked goods the air was heavy with the smell of bleach. As Oliver put a delicate cup of tea in front of me, I noticed the chemical burns on the back of his hands, the skin dry and peeling away. François sat down opposite me.

"Would you like a cupcake, love?" Oliver asked. He was practically bouncing on the spot. I don't think I'd ever seen him this happy. Triumphant, smug, and victorious, but never truly  _happy_.

"I'd love one," it dawned on me suddenly that Nikolai doesn't seem to have much of a sweet tooth. The only time desserts had been served at his house had been during holidays.

Oliver put the cake in front of me, and I automatically bowed my head in prayer.

"What are you doing, sweetheart?" Oliver asked.

"Huh? Oh, I was… we usually pray before food."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Nikolai and I. I've been living with Nikolai. I didn't think either of you would mind too much, since you weren't very well, and Papa was looking after you."

"I'm fine," Oliver said. His earlier smile seemed forced now, and he stared at me unblinkingly.

"You are now," I agreed, "But you  _weren't_. You were panicking and hallucinating, and Al wasn't well either, and Papa was looking after you both; I couldn't make him look after me as well."

"I'm fine," Oliver repeated, spitting the words.

"I can see that."

"At least he's here now, hm?" François said, touching Oliver on the forearm.

Oliver jumped, then sighed, "Yes, that's wonderful. Well, eat your cupcake dear."

I picked up the cupcake. The icing was white, and as I peeled away the paper case the sponge was red. I took a large bite, chewed quickly, then gagged. I spat it onto the saucer my teacup had been on. Oliver stared at me in shock. François was wincing.

"Was there  _blood_  in that?!" I gasped out, dropping the bitten cake on the table.

"Oh, poppet, you know there have been food shortages," Oliver said calmly, stroking my hair.

I stared at him, barely able to breathe.

"It's your Uncle Scottie's blood," François said gently, "He's in the basement. He's mostly okay, just very tired."

"You know about this!" I screeched at him, "You were meant to be looking after him!"

François didn't answer.

"Hush, sweetheart," Oliver crooned, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and forcing my head into his chest, still stroking my hair through his fingers, "Don't be raising your voice like that, it's aggressive."

I shoved him off, and he squealed in shock. I stormed out the kitchen, through the hallway and upstairs. Al's bedroom was near the top of the stairs, the door red and decorated with blue and white stars.

I threw the door open. Al was not there, the room untouched since the revolution all those centuries ago, a thick layer of dust blanketing the outdated furniture, most of the fabrics eaten away by insects. The heavy air made me choke, and I slammed the door shut again, heading back downstairs.

"Where's Alfred?" I demanded.

"He's in his room," Oliver answers.

"No he isn't; I've just been up there."

François sighed. He opened a bottle of wine, screw-top and far below the high standard of his that I'm used to, and filled a mug with the strong-smelling liquid.

"He's got a new bedroom," Oliver said. His arms were folded behind his back and he rocked backwards and forwards on his feet.

"Where?" I asked shortly.

"You're being very brash, poppet. Why is it even so important to you?"

"Because I'm taking him and Uncle Scottie, and leaving."

François choked on his wine, spitting most of his mouthful out.

Oliver's false smile dropped completely to a disappointed scowl. "You're not taking my lovies anywhere."

"One of the reasons I didn't come back here when I de-aged was because you weren't safe to be around!" I said, "And you're still not safe, not for anyone to be around, never mind a child! You need serious help, Dad, but as much as I love you I can't be here, and I get the feeling Alfred and Uncle Scottie shouldn't be here either."

"They're absolutely fine, sweetheart," Oliver said, beginning to pace towards me. I backed away towards the kitchen door.

"If they're fine, why are they hidden?"

"They're not. We told you; your Uncle Scot is in the basement, and Allan is in his room."

"Scottie and Alfred, Dad. They're names are Scottie and Alfred.

"Oh, whatever," Oliver waved one of his hands dismissively then snapped it behind his back again, "Don't you want another cake, love?"

"I  _really_  don't." I continued to back away as Oliver approached. My shoulder smacked into the door, and it creaked, making Oliver jump. I turned on my heel and dashed for the door.

I turned the front handle, but the heavy door did little more than rattle, the lock secured. An arm wrapped around my chest, a sharp pain in my neck, and I blacked out.

* * *

 

"Mattie? Earth to Mattie? Come in, Mattie? Bro? Mattie? Maaaatttttiiiiieeee?"

I blinked awake. I was cold, the floor beneath me was hard, and my joints were stiff.

Al sat next to me, aged about thirteen, in some sort of child's school uniform; button down shirt, navy tie, shorts and suspenders, knee socks and buckled shoes. I looked down at myself to find my telynashka and overalls replaced with a similar outfit, my tie being red and my hair fastened back in a matching ribbon. I hadn't even been aware my hair was long enough to be fastened back.

"Yo!" Alfred greeted noisily.

"Hi," I answered, "Where are we?"

"Part of the cellar. Oliver calls it 'my room', but as you can see, there's not much here."

The room was small, about ten paces long and twelve paces across. Metal hoops had been inlaid between the stone bricks, the grey streaked with red. A small window was set in the wall far too high above our heads for us to have any hope of reaching it. The door was iron, closed, and locked.

"Where ya been?" Al chattered. We sat side by side in the corner, staring at the door.

"Russia," I answered, "Nikolai found me. Alaska, he said I was."

"First name basis, huh?" Al pulled a disgusted face, "Not hurt ya, has he?"

"No. He was kinda scary at first, but I got used to him. He's okay, really. He lets me use his library, and it's got so many books and old posters and artefacts and stuff in it. You'd love exploring it, Al, and his house is real old, and it's got secret passages all over the place, and weapons on display, and old paintings and maps-"

I was interrupted by a scratching noise. Al gasped.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Uncle Scottie," Al whispered, "He escapes 'his room' sometimes, and tries to help me escape. We haven't much success so far, but we're getting better at it, and one day we're gonna get away!"

A loud click, and the door opened inwards. Uncle Scottie collapsed forwards with a grunt.

"Uncle Scottie?" I asked warily. He didn't move. Al counted to five under his breath. Uncle Scottie still didn't move.

Al jumped up, running out the door, stepping carefully over our uncle. "Come on, we gotta go!"

"But what about Uncle Scottie?"

"He made me promise if he doesn't move for five seconds, to just leave him. He doesn't wanna be a hindrance, he said."

"But we gotta help him!"

"We gotta help ourselves first!"

I stood up and ran over to Al. I glanced down at Uncle Scottie as I passed. Both of his arms were covered in bandages, the white fabric soaked in blood. His trousers, not the kilt I remembered him wearing, were full of holes, and his shirt was caked in blood and dirt. The string of an eye patch sat in his crimson hair.

Al grabbed me by the hand and dragged me away. He turned left, running towards a flight of stairs. We stepped up them carefully and quietly, afraid of every little creak. The door at the top was closed. Al pressed himself against the wood, holding his breath as he listened. He nodded to give me the all-clear, and opened the door.

We snuck out, hands still clasped together. His palm was clammy with sweat, his fingers digging almost painfully into the back of my hand.

The front door was still locked. We froze at the rattle, then Al led the way to the back door, pulling me behind him.

The back door was in the kitchen. And so were Oliver and François. François sat at the kitchen table, wine bottle almost empty, mug cradled in his hand. Oliver leant against the counter, whistling a tune as he mixed a red cake batter.

After several tense minutes, Oliver turned to the counter, searching through a cupboard for something. Al seized the opportunity, sprinting across the kitchen and out the back door, dragging me behind him, clinging to his smaller hand for dear life. He threw the door open, and I vaguely heard Oliver screech something before we were racing across the dead garden, kicking up dust under our buckled shoes.

At the end of the garden, the hedgerow had been torn out, probably after it died, to be replaced with a tall wire fence. Al threw his back against it, lacing his fingers together to hoist me up.

I stepped on him and he threw me, his superstength sending me almost to the top of the fence. I caught the wire by my hands first, almost falling down before I managed to ram the pointed toes of my shoes in between the wire. I looked down at Al, who was beginning to climb up himself.

But Oliver was hardly steps behind, and he snatched Al by his hips, dragging him back to the ground. Al flailed, smacking Oliver wildly in the face directionlessly before Oliver could sink the needle into him, stabbing him in the stomach and shoving the plunger down, the clear contents giving Al a short seizure before he collapsed.

I scrambled up and over the fence, my sleeve catching on the stray wire at the top before I jumped down, landing in a crouch.

"You can't leave me," Oliver shouted after me as I ran away, "You've got nowhere to go; no money, no food, no clothes. The only other person who even knows you exist is at the opposite end of Europe. You're going to have to come back."

* * *

 

Night had fallen. I had sat in the park most of the day, hidden in a corner. My uniform was old-fashioned, making me look completely out of place, and therefore easy to spot.

I stood at the gate of the Kirkland mansion. Two of the lights were on. One downstairs, and a silhouette kept flitting forwards and back, pacing continuously. The second light was what used to be my bedroom.

The gate opened smoothly, and clanged shut behind me. The pacer froze, then dashed in the direction of the hallway. The front door opened, and a figure peered out into the darkness.

I walked up the path, the remaining gravel crunching under my feet. As I neared the building, the figure became distinguishable; tall, slim, long hair, a mug still clamped in his hands. His shoulders twitched every few seconds, and as I got closer to him I could hear his drunken hiccups.

"Mathieu?" François called.

"Yeah," I answered.

"I told you to get away, didn't I?" he sighed, collapsing to a sitting position.

"Yeah."

We remained in silence for several seconds.

François stood suddenly, swaying dangerously and spilling some of his drink. It was too dark to be his wine, but still smelt strongly of alcohol. At this point, François was probably too drunk to care.

He stumbled into the house, falling down next to the cabinet. He clawed about underneath it, pawed out a thick envelope. Sitting up, he held the envelope out for me to take.

"The last of mine and your uncle's money," he gurgled, "Should be enough to buy you a cheap change of clothes and get you back to Russia. Go, do not come back."

I took the envelope, and ignored my growling stomach and tired eyes as I ran.

* * *

 

It was mid-afternoon in Russia when I arrived. I ran in, and straight to Nikolai's office. At first I thought it was empty, until the door slammed shut behind me.

Nikolai stood over me, pipe raised, eyes wide in threat. He froze, hands twitching to strike, as he blinked in recognition.

"You're back quickly," he said dumbly. He lowered the pipe and took a step back.

"My Dad's a cannibal," I gasped out, barely able to breathe, "He's torturing my uncle and brother, taking their blood, and baking them into cupcakes."

Nikolai stared at me for several seconds before he groaned in exasperation. He strode past me, sitting back behind his desk, hiding his pipe away.

"We have to go help them!" I cried.

"Help who?"

"Al and Scottie!"

"We can't."

I gaped at him. "What do you mean we  _can't_?"

"We're in the aftermath of a war. Neither of our countries can afford Scottish-American rescue missions. England has control over them, and there is nothing we can do about it."

"You mean you  _knew_?! Did you  _know_  he was torturing them?!"

Nikolai sighed. "You need to calm down, Matvei."

"Calm down?! You fucking  _knew_!"

"Yes, I knew. Oliver told me himself. He's been on the phone for almost three months now, begging me to let you visit."

"He knew I was here?"

"I contacted François soon after you decided to stay. Clearly, Oliver found out. He threatened to invade you if I didn't make you visit."

I stared at Nikolai for several seconds, fists clenching and unclenching. With a yell, I seized a glass paperweight and threw it. It smashed against the wall as I stormed out.

I stole a bottle of vodka from the kitchen and hid in the empty trunk in my room. Nikolai didn't come looking for me, and either never noticed the missing bottle or never mentioned it when I was in the dining room the next morning. He let me eat as much as I liked and sleep the rest of the morning. New clothes arrived a day later.

* * *

 

Oliver never arrived at Nikolai's mansion. He called a few more times, but Nikolai managed to find reasons for me not to go to England.

At least, until now. Oliver had insisted that I had to visit when I become an adult again, promising it would only be for the day, and I would return to Russia that night.

Al and Scottie are nowhere to be found. François is drinking his wine straight from the bottle. A chain is wrapped around his ankle, connected to an iron loop in the floor. Oliver hands the jeans to me, beaming with pride.

I try the jeans on in the toilet of the train from Kent to Dover. They are a little large on my hips, but my red suspenders holds them up. I fold up my red school cravat, putting it in my pocket, and unfasten the top buttons of my shirt.

**Author's Note:**

> Girl in painting is Anastasia Romanov  
> The soup was borscht, a beetroot salad  
> Telynashka are striped shirt worn by members of the Russian military, different colours standing for different branches of the military. I couldn't find anything red stood for, so assumed that would be a 'safe' colour to go with. If it does already stand for something, drop me a message and I can only apologise and find an alternative  
> "Radi' yebat Matvei" means "For fuck sake Matthew"  
> The salad was salat Olivier, a potato/egg salad  
> Matt learns Nikolai's plans, and reminds him what those plans were  
> The 'clear contents' of the needle is actually just air. Bubbles of pure air in the blood stream will cause the person to have a heart attack, killing them. Of course, Al will recover


End file.
